


The Trouble With Wanting

by agent_starbuck



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Early Days, F/M, Jealous Fox Mulder, Little Black Dress, Tumblr Prompt, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-03
Updated: 2019-06-06
Packaged: 2020-04-07 01:38:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19074862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agent_starbuck/pseuds/agent_starbuck
Summary: 177. “So is this a regular occurrence with you or am I just really special?”178. “You couldn’t handle me.”Tumblr Prompt. Set in season one. Jealous Mulder. Sexy Scully in a black dress. Rated M for language.





	1. Chapter 1

The first time it happens, he doesn't know what to think.

  
It was a Saturday night, and Skinner had called them both in for an emergency meeting to discuss a breakthrough on the case they were working.

  
The initial red flag should've been that she was late. She'd never been late to a meeting before-- impromptu or not-- in the almost ten months since she'd been assigned to the X-Files. He always chalked it up to her being the daughter of a Naval captain. There are just some facets of her Navy Brat upbringing that can't be expunged from her character.

  
She dashes in through the doorway of Skinner's office, out of breath and avoiding eye contact like the plague, and the staccato beat of his heart quickens exponentially at the sight of her.

  
He's not sure what, exactly, he expected Dana Scully to be wearing at 10:45 pm on a normal weekend off, but surely a tight, form-fitting Little Black Dress with fuck-me heels and an obscene amount of eyeliner wasn't it.

  
Her spartan beauty is something he's appreciated since the day she walked into his basement office. He's noticed her in ways that would definitely be considered professionally inappropriate. How could he not? Even with those baggy pant suits that she attempts to bury her petite, feminine curves under, she's breathtakingly beautiful.

  
But now? In this moment? _Holy fuck_.

"Sorry, um-- sorry I'm late."

 

He dips his legs to let her past, the backs of her very bare, very smooth thighs skimming against his knees, and he has to physically bite the inside of his cheek to stifle a groan.

 

As she settles into the chair, she tugs uncomfortably at the hem of her skirt in an effort to cover the tops of her thighs-- thighs unencumbered by the confining fabric of her usual stockings.

 

His vision is drawn to a delicate freckle on the inside of her knee. A morsel of decadent chocolate perched upon a sweet wafer of vanilla skin. He absentmindedly runs his tongue along his bottom lip, imagining, instead, that he were tasting it for the very first time.

 

He feels a pang of guilt tug at his consciousness for the lewd thoughts running through his mind. Normally, he's able to keep himself in check. _Normally, she isn't dressed like this._

 

"Agent Scully, glad you could make it. We've come into possession of some incriminating evidence that could change the status of the Costillo case."

 

"What kind of evidence?"

 

"A local surveillance tape caught Giorgio Costillo leaving Franklin's office the night the assault occurred."

 

"Of course. Is it enough for a prosecution?"

 

"The footage isn't the best, but we believe so, yes. Agent Mulder will provide you with all the details that we discussed earlier in the case report. I've got to go down to the DA's office to get the ball rolling. You can reach me on my mobile should any new developments arise."

 

"Yes, sir."

 

After the meeting, they walk side-by-side through the barren FBI hallways, the echo of her ridiculous, four-inch heels clacking off the walls impeding his ability to think. She hasn't said a word. Neither has he, but that's because he doesn't trust himself not to blurt out a tactless remark about her current choice of attire.

 

Racing thoughts consume his mind. Why was she dressed like this? Was it for another guy? Was she on a date? Does Scully even date? He's only known of her going on one other date since they've been working together. Does she do this every weekend? Is it the same guy or someone different every time?

 

They finally make it inside the elevator, and the ambrosial scent of her perfume imbues the air around them, making him feel delirious. It's a scent he's never noticed before. He's completely thrown by her tonight, this Scully. She is an enigma. And he's intrigued.

 

"Fun night?" he asks and winces, immediately regretting his choice of words as soon as they hit the open air. She's obviously uncomfortable.

 

The elevator stutters to a halt, like the heartbeat in his chest, and he waits, doors opening with a ding, signalling her to make her escape.

 

"Let it go, Mulder," she retorts with a sigh as she exits.

 

And he does. He does let it go. For her. For tonight.

•••••

The second time it happens, he's prepared.

 

They were requested at a crime scene late one Friday evening. A gruesome murder. Suspicious circumstances. Green gelatinous substances that could not be identified found strewn across a body.

 

He knew before he even turned around-- the overt crescendo of her heels smacking against the cobblestone as she approached him a dead giveaway. These weren't the sound of her usual, modest, kitten-heeled pumps. These heels were sharp. Deadly. They cut a path straight through his heart to his groin. He adjusts the front of his slacks.

 

"So, is this a regular occurrence with you or am I just really special?" He goes for cocky. Flirty. Hoping that she's a little more receptive to his inquisition into her late-night escapades than last time.

 

"Excuse me?"

 

He swallows a lungful of air in anticipation, mustering the courage to finally turn and face her. When he does, his heart sinks into his stomach.

 

This time she's wrapped up in a thin, black trench coat, belt tied tightly around her hourglass waist. A small fragment of scintillating skin peeks through the collar of her coat, allowing him, at least, a glimpse of her alluring collarbones. He doesn't need to guess at what's hidden beneath. He already knows.

 

"I'm just, uh, wondering, Scully, if you dressed up for me or this is just your regular, Friday night attire."

 

"Don't flatter yourself, Mulder."

 

"So, not for me?"

 

"If you must know," she hesitates, then continues, still avoiding his eyes as she reaches into her pocket to acquire a pair of latex gloves. "I was on a date."

 

He struggles to suppress the crestfallen look strewn across his face. It shouldn't surprise him. She's a beautiful, talented, single woman in her prime. Why wouldn't she go on dates? She probably rejects offers from eager suitors in the bullpen at work at least every week.

 

The question he's _really_ afraid to ask is why he should even care.

 

"A date, huh?" His voice cracks.

 

"Yes. Is that so hard to believe?"

 

"I'm, uh, just wondering what appeal that could possibly hold for you when you've got such a roguishly good-looking partner to galavant around with, hunting aliens and monsters and things that go bump in the night." He's being as bold with his flirtatious banter as he's ever been up until this point.

 

"You wouldn't know how to take a girl on a proper date even if Casanova himself wrote you an instruction booklet," she says jestingly as she snaps on her last glove. There are no malice in her words, but her flippant remarks sting. Like latex against skin.

 

"Maybe, but I'd try. With you."

 

"I don't think you could handle me, Mulder."

 

"And I, I, I suppose this other guy you've been seeing can?" Before he's even aware, his hands have ventured to plant themselves firmly on his hips in a defensive posture. Just the thought of another guy taking her to dinner makes him feel sick to his stomach.

 

She stops what she's doing to glance at him, wide-eyed and confused at the sudden change in his demeanor. The air around them has gone from fun and flirty to serious. Intense.

 

"Mulder? Are you-- are you jealous?" She says incredulously, emphasizing the last word and making the muscle in his jaw clench tight like a vice.

 

"What? No! Scully, I-- of course not," he chokes out. "Let's, uh, let's just get to work, okay?"

 

"Fine."

 

"Fine," he echoes, and they begin the task of collecting evidence.

 

She never unexpectedly shows up in heels and a dress ever again. He never asks why. He secretly wishes the reason were him, but dares not let himself hope. Hope is a dangerous, ephemeral folly.

 

So is love.


	2. Scully's POV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a very short follow-up to the story from Scully's POV.

She should've changed before she came to the office. As a matter of fact, she almost did. When she left the restaurant, her car's turn signal was fixed in the down position, indicating left, the direction of her apartment. The direction of her puritanical suits and clunky pumps. Of modesty and professionalism.

 

Her blinker ticked away the time as she waged an internal battle within herself. She glanced at the clock. She was already late.

 

She turned right.

•••••

The heat of Mulder's eyes on her body as she stumbles through Skinner's door makes her traitorous belly flutter in excitement. She tries not to like it. Tries to ignore the way his gaze darkens when he catches a glimpse of virgin skin below her too-short skirt. The way her cheeks flush in response.

 

Her date looked at her the same way tonight. Except, no, he didn't because he wasn't Mulder. No one could look at her the way he does.

 

Every weekend she puts herself through the torture. A masochistic reminder of a life she'll never have. A life without The X-Files. Without Mulder.

 

It's become a ritual for her. Crisp, clean cotton napkins. Finely embossed menus on thick, textured cardstock. Candlelight diffused through crystal glass, casting reflections of starlight that sparkle against the ceiling. She finds herself searching for UFOs and signs of life beyond the low hum of polite chatter and soft piano music. She tries not to laugh at the irony.

 

 _Mulder, Mulder, Mulder._ He's everything and everywhere. He's the omnipresent life force that's consumed her very existence. It's impossible for her to escape him, try as she might.

 

At the end of the night, she sends her dates away with a cordial kiss to the cheek and vague assurances of next time. She goes home and washes away the overwhelming stench of loneliness and garlic. Crawls into her silky PJs and imagines a life where she isn't in love with her partner.

 

She keeps a trenchcoat in the backseat of her car for next time.


End file.
